


Things That Fall from the Sky

by Ruuger



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s09e18 Sunshine Days, Established Relationship, F/M, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-01
Updated: 2010-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuger/pseuds/Ruuger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reyes has been feeling strangely restless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote much of this already back in 2003, which is why the style is quite different than what I write these days.

Monica gave up trying to fall asleep and opened her eyes. She stared at the ceiling, at the cracks and stains she was sure she could now describe blindfolded, and thought about the bed she was laying in. In the last few weeks, she had become very familiar with that bed, but tonight, the fact that it wasn't her bed seemed to bother her for the first time. The mattress was too soft, the pillows too thin, and the feng shui of the room was just all wrong. But to be honest, it wasn't the bed that was bothering her, nor was it the man sleeping next to her.

It had been three weeks since she'd found John standing in her doorway, waiting to be invited into her life, and already they had fallen into a pattern, as if they had been living together for years. Not that they were living together, not officially. It had simply happened. According to some unspoken agreement they now spent every other night at her place and every other in his. She had brought some of her things to his place, he in hers, and in two weeks they had not spent one night apart.

After almost nine years of friendship and a year of working together they had simply joined their lives. There had been no dates, no grand romantic gestures, no awkwardness, only... what? Love?

She rolled on to her side to gazeat John. He looked younger when he was asleep, and she often found herself watching him, wondering what it would have been like to have known him before Luke's death. She reached out, careful not to wake him, and gently stroked his hair, her fingertips brushing against the faint half-moon scar on his temple. He had so many scars, too many for one man, but the biggest scars were the ones he carried within him and which had only recently began to heal. She had never seen him without those scars. To her, he had always been Luke's father.

She lay back again, focusing on a small crack running across the ceiling. How strong a foundation did their relationship then have, if it was based on pain and darkness? They had met while looking for Luke, and had been bound together by some timeless evil that only they had felt. How could she be sure that what they felt was really love? In her heart she knew that she loved him and that he loved her, but in her mind there was a small suspicious voice whispering that they did not so much love each other as needed each other. That they were merely hostages. Hostages to Luke, to the darkness, to the X-Files, to each other.

What was it called, Helsinki Syndrome? No, Stockholm. Stockholm Syndrome. Not quite the same thing, but close enough.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep but couldn't, because deep inside she was afraid that she would wake up one morning and not be in love with John anymore.

Maybe Brad was right. Maybe it really wasn't love after all.

She had gone to see Brad after work, and and what they had said to one another was now playing inside her head in an endless loop. She couldn't sleep because of what Brad had said to her, what she had said to Brad, and because she couldn't stop thinking about him, even though it did seem somehow impolite to be thinking about a different man than the one sleeping next to you.

She wasn't quite sure why she had wanted to see him. She was angry with him, yes, for pretending to help her all those years ago when in reality he had been on Regali's payroll, but was that really why she had gone to see him?

* * *

When he opened the door she could see that he had been packing. She didn't ask why.

"Didn't expect to see you, Monica."

There was a bitterness in his voice that she had never heard before, and as she followed him inside, she wondered briefly if he was angry with her, at John, or perhaps just at himself. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

He snorted and returned to his packing. "Fine, as you can see. Not only have I been relieved of my stressful job at the FBI, but if all goes well I might also be looking at a all expenses paid vacation at a Federal prison of my choice."

"I'm sorry," she said, but didn't really mean it. He in return pretended he hadn't heard it, and just gestured her to sit down. She remained standing.

"You know, when you left me three years ago, my first thought was that you'd left because of him."

The seriousness of his voice as he said it came to her as a complete surprise. Of course he had joked about her being more than friends with John. Surely he had been joking all those times when he had commented on how close she and John were. Suddenly she wasn't so sure anymore.

"You were always calling him, or he was calling you, so you'll excuse me if I thought you two were having an affair."

"We were friends, Brad," she said quietly, trying not to sound defensive. "We have been friends ever since..." She didn't finish the sentence. Couldn't. Not even after all these years.

"And are you 'friends' with him now?" he jeerd. "Was it 'friendship' that brought you here to ruin your career in the X-Files? Is it because of this 'friendship' that you're sleeping with him?"

She wanted to slap him then, but didn't.

Brad's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Oh yes, you'd be surprised at the things you hear in the cafeteria. Then again, you never were against a bit of office romance."

"Go to hell."

"Hit a nerve, did it, Monica? You see, I finally understand now what drives you to him. Pity. You feel pity for him. The sad ex-marine with the dead son and the wife who left him. Any woman would fall for that."

"Shut up, Brad."

"As you wish. But you know I'm right. If it hadn't been for the dead boy, you'd never have given him a second look."

He turned his back to her, and resumed packing, leaving her to stare at him, speechless. She wasn't angry at him, not anymore. At that moment he seemed too pathetic creature to hate. As she was about to leave, he turned to face her. He was holding a glass vase - something heavy and expensive that she vaguely remembered from his apartment back in New York - turning it around in his hands as he spoke.

"I wish I hadn't taken that money from Regali, Monica," he said, almost whispering. "If I hadn't helped him get away with it, it could all be different. We could still be together." Still cradling the vase in one hand, reached to touch her hand. "Everything would have been different."

She still didn't know what to say, but from the way he looked at her, she realized that on some level he really did mean it. What he'd said to her hadn't been just some territorial "if I can't have you no-one can" crap. After all these years, he really did still love her.

She backed away from him.

"No, Brad. It wouldn't."

They were no longer the same people who had loved each other all those years ago. He was someone else, and so was she. "I think it's best that I leave."

"Yes, maybe it is."

She turned to leave, but before she could reach the door she was possessed by the same restlessness that had originally driven her to see him. If this was the last time they met, she owed him her honesty.

She stopped, and turned to look at him for the last time.

"Brad?"

There was an odd sense hopefulness in his voice. "Yes, Monica?"

"It's you that I pity."

* * *

With those words she left his apartment, and as she walked down the hall she could hear the sound of breaking glass behind her.

Afterwards, she had spent almost three hours just driving around, unable to rid herself of the restlessness. She had eventually found herself in Fall's Church, sitting in her car in front of John's house, trying to decide whether or not to go in. She had not told him that she was coming over, nor had he asked her, but nevertheless she walked across the front lawn and opened the door with his spare keys that were now in her key ring. She found him in the kitchen, making dinner, the table already set for two. Patterns.

"Can't sleep, huh?"

Monica stirred from her toughts to find John awake. He was looking at her, his head propped on his elbow.

She smiled, unable to help herself, just hearing his voice enough to cheer her mood. Had it ever been like this with Brad, with any of the others?

"Just waiting for you to wake up."

"Yeah? Got plans?"

She leaned forward and kissed him. "Oh, I've got plans."

They were interrupted by the phone. John let out a harrumph of irritation and reluctantly pulled away, rolling over to answer the phone.

Monica closed her eyes and she must have dozed off because the next thing she knew, there was a hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her awake. "Your phone's gonna ring in a few minutes."

She opened her eyes again.

"Who was it?"

"Work. We've gotta take the first flight to California. Some guy just fell from the sky in Van Nyus."

He said it so casually, as if men fell from sky every day, and she couldn't help laughing. She was still feeling giddy when her phone rang. It was indeed from work and some guy had indeed fallen from the sky in Van Nyus. She put away the phone, and then kissed John one more time before reaching for her clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

"You don't seriously believe that the man was catapulted through the roof of the house?"

John leaned back on the chair and propped his feet on the rail of the balcony.

"Why not?"

She laughed and grabbed the other armchair, dragging it next to his. "Because you're John Doggett and John Doggett doesn't believe in people being telekinetically catapulted through roofs. What happened to your theory about the helicopter?"

"As I recall, you didn't believe the theory about the helicopter. Besides, that was before we found the evidence."

"What evidence?"

"The patched roof, the piece of the tile on the car, the . . . thing . . . Scully said happened with the body."

She stared at him in mock horror. "Who are you and what have you done with my partner?"

"Hey! Aren't you the one who's always saying that we should always keep an open mind. I'm simply taking your advice."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're just mocking me now, aren't you?" He didn't say anything, just sat there smirking, and she smacked his shoulder. "That's it, I'm raiding the minibar. Do you want anything?"

"A beer'd be nice."

She walked to the minibar and peered inside. "They've got Mexican beer." Whe she looked up, John was making a face. She grinned and tossed him a can. "Open mind, John, remember?"

She took out another can, condensation wetting her fingers as she wiped her thumb across the label. Cervaza Tecate. It was the brand that her father used to drink. He'd been visiting a neighbour when she'd called her mother earlier that day, and though Monica rarely spoke with him on the phone, she'd found herself oddly disappointed that she hadn't been able to talk to him. Shaking her head she closed the door of the minibar.

John was standing by the railing, just a dark shadow against the purple twilight, and for a moment she was possessed by the strange thought that he could be anyone - John, Brad, any of the men she'd ever been with. Outside, she could hear the hum and drone of the late-night traffic on the street below, roar of a jetplane passing overhead, snatches of conversation carried from open windows, and yet inside the room it seemed to be far too quiet, urging her to talk just to banish the silence. She wrapped her fingers tighter around the beer can, feeling the cold seep into her skin.

"I went to see Brad yesterday."

John looked at her over his shoulder, frowning.

"He was, well, he was Brad, but he said something to me that made me think and..." Her voice trailed off as the words she was about to say refused to take form. She set the beer can on the table and took a deep breath. "You would go back, wouldn't you? If you had the choice?"

That was not what she had meant to say; the words had simply popped into her head, dropped from the sky like poor Blake McCormick.

He turned to look at her properly, his brow knitting in confusion. "Go back where?"

"Back to your old life before..." She hesitated, afraid of hurting him. "Before we met. Before Luke died. If you could go back, you would."

He stood up and walked across the room to her, but stopped when she took a step back.

"Why--" he started to say, but she interrupted him.

"Please, just answer. And don't lie to me. I've already heard enough lies today from Brad."

He stared at her for a few seconds, and then suddenly pulled her closer, and held her tight, burying his face in her hair.

"Yes," he whispered. "I would go back, but only for Luke. I love you, Monica, you do know that, don't you?"

She smiled, feeling the tension leave her body. Of course she knew it. He let go of her, pulled her to their bed, and sat down next to her.

"I'm sorry," she said after a few seconds. "It's just that the last few days I've been feeling like-"

"-like something's coming." She looked at him in surprise. John nodded. "I've been feeling it too. Like you needed to put your affairs in order."

She nodded in relief. He had put into words the restlessness that had plagued her, the subtle sense of wrongness in the world that had driven her to see Brad, and to ask John about Luke. She had needed to know where she stood with them. She had needed to know how far she was prepared to go for them, how far they were prepared to go for her. She had needed to put her affairs in order, as John had said. She had called her mother, paid her bills, and returned all her library books, even those she hadn't read yet. Something was coming.

She smiled and pulled him back in her arms.

Something was coming, but that didn't matter because they had each other, their unspoken agreement finally set into words and actions. They didn't need more - no rings, no champagne, no grand romantic gestures. Just this.


End file.
